


spring of bones, spring of suns

by Amber



Category: Zombieland (2009)
Genre: Body Shots, F/M, Marriage Proposal, Porn Battle, Shotgun Wedding, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wichita tips her head, her dark hair wet from the stone cold shower they'd fucking luxuriated in. </p>
<p>"We should get married," she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spring of bones, spring of suns

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XIV for the prompts "shots, romance". Title from [Axis](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/axis-3/) by Octavio Paz. Warnings at end of work.

They're kicked back at the top of Hotel Guadarajala, enjoying the view of the ravaged city. She's got her bare feet in his lap, and she keeps rubbing her heel back and forth over his groin. Not constantly, just a hint of tease, occasionally. Like maybe she doesn't know what it's doing to him, except for how he's pretty sure she does. But that's cool. He's not about to stop her. They’re stupid horny for each other. Tal takes Little Rock out on adventures just to stop her from walking in on them going at it like rabbits.

Wichita tips her head, her dark hair wet from the stone cold shower they'd fucking luxuriated in.

"We should get married," she says.

Columbus takes a minute or two to catch up. "Wait, what?"

"Married," she repeats, slowly.

"Uh, forgive me if this is an asshole thing to say, but, that never really struck me as your scene," Columbus stutters out, blinking at her. "The whole commitment thing."

"Is it really a commitment when you're half of the total population of the world?" Wichita asks him, pulling her feet off his lap. "It's not like I'm asking you to buy me a fucking house in Beverly Hills, jesus."

"I know, but," Columbus tries. He's thinking of the way it feels when she pulls away in the car with his guns. The way it felt the first time, the way it still feels when she does it every couple of months or so, gets flighty and takes Little Rock and he and Tal have to chase them down again. It's getting rarer and rarer, and he thinks maybe she mostly does it now for entertainment value, but it still isn't exactly a bedrock fucking foundation on which to lay a marriage.

"Wow, Ohio. I had no idea marriage meant so much to you," she laughs, in that throaty voice of hers. He wants nothing more than to kiss her, and maybe under all the paranoid it's starting to sink in that the girl of his dreams, the love of his life (partially out of necessity, partially out of genuine infatuation) has just asked him to marry her.

"Maybe I just wanna be romanced," he tries to sulk, crossing his arms like a little bitch, but he can't stop looking at her and she can't stop looking back, and neither of them seem to be able to stop smiling. She slinks out of the chair and over into his space, bends forward and puts a hand on his dick where it's pressing against the sip of his jeans.

"Oh, you don't think I can do romance?" she asks, sarcastic-sweet, right up in his face. "I can romance you, Columbus. I'll romance you all night _long_." And she squeezes him, and he groans, and for a little while they just make out.

"Hey," he tries eventually, speech coming slow because her top's off and his hands are in her beautiful hair and she's riding him gently, an easy up-down motion of her thighs over him, sweet and tight around his cock. "Hey, where the fuck are we going to find a priest?"

"I'll dress up as one," she murmurs, and does that totally unfair thing she does sometimes where she squeezes around him. He laugh-sobs and tries not to come, which is made easier when she bites at his ear a little too hard. "Seriously, what kind of idiot question is that. Are you religious?"

Columbus thinks of the devastation he's seen wreaked across America, the vile and destitute shuffle of the walking dead. "Uh. No?"

"Right. And I'm sure as fuck not religious, so who cares about a priest?"

"Krista," he says, and she stops suddenly, stops moving and fucking and teasing, just pulls back to look at him with those big sad eyes that say she hasn't heard that name on someone else's lips in a while. She swallows, hard, grimacing. Columbus stops tugging at her hair and starts stroking it in soft little movements, not sure what else to do. "You don't even like it when I use your real name," he points out, but the accusation's leaked from his voice, leaving it gentle. "Why would you want to marry me?"

"Because there is nothing else to do," she says slowly, sarcastic, like it should be obvious. "So what if I want to maybe bring a bit of ceremony into our lives?"

"Yeah, you're a real altruist," Columbus grumbles, but he can kind of see her point. Marriage doesn't matter, because nothing matters, so why not get married? Maybe if they can find a mall without too many zombies, they can find a cute flowergirl dress for Little Rock. And Tal can be the best man! Columbus finds he's smiling again.

"God damn, all right. Okay. Let's get married," he agrees, and Wichita's squeal is deafening, if somewhat insincere. "When?"

She looks at him, slides his hands down her hips and starts up her shimmy again. "Tomorrow."

 

They perform the ceremony out in the countryside, so they won't be rudely interrupted, though it brings new meaning to a shotgun wedding when all four in attendance are carrying a gun, including the kid sister. It's the ruins of a little Mexican chapel. Wichita and Columbus kiss for too long, Little Rock throws rice everywhere, and Talahassee cries.

 

For their honeymoon they take a separate car and drive to the other side of Mexico City, where Mrs. Columbus teaches her newly-wedded husband how to do shots.

"Lick," she instructs him, and he drags his tongue along the hollow of her throat, salt collecting on his tongue. "Sip," she adds. Tequila is a rough burn down to Columbus' stomach, but he takes the shot anyway. Wichita presses the bottle of artificial lemon juice to his mouth and he sips at it, pulls a face.

"Your juice sucks," they finish in chorus, and then she kisses him to catch the last taste of it, looping an arm around his neck. Wichita is a girl who knows what she wants. He likes that about her. There's an easy movement to her hips, and this song is old and slow but she grinds like it's the sickest, lowest, bass.

“I think tonight,” she murmurs in his ear, “I’m going to pin you up against the wall and suck your brain’s out through your dick. How’s that sound?”

“Uh, sounds pretty good to me,” Columbus manages, strangled.

They dance.

 

That night, she shows him the bite on her thigh.

"I knew it. I fucking knew it!" Columbus rages, kicking at the hard stones while she stands there with her hands white-knuckled. "I knew there was no way you wouldn't find some way to get out of this."

And he pants with a kind of helpless fury at the universe, trying to disbelieve, and she brings a hand up and touches his face, sad-eyed.

"No toothpaste this time, I swear. No con. I just wanted us to have this, and be able to go away — so that Little Rock wouldn't—"

She starts to cry, and if there's one thing Columbus is bad at, it's girls crying. He's survived a zombie apocalypse but he's still incredibly awkward about suddenly having her in his arms with her face pressed into the shoulder of his hoodie, shaking with sobs. He thinks about pushing her hair back over her ear, but that's kind of lost its appeal lately.

“Do I need to do it?” he asks her, because he knows Wichita by now, knows how she’s too much of a survivor to pull a trigger on herself.

“Twice in the head,” she replies in a high, tearful voice. “Just to be sure.” His breath catches and she smacks his ass. “Don’t be a pussy.”

“I love you so much,” Columbus says to her, feeling like he’s a coin spinning on its side, and one face is laughter and the other is crying himself blind. She’s gone still in his arms, because even with their bullshit ceremony, they don’t say things like that to each other. Then she turns her face in towards his with flashing fuck-you eyes and just like that it’s hands and mouth and teeth.

Columbus finds himself on his knees with his mouth buried between her legs. “Lick,” she tells him, and rocks her weight back into the broad palms of his hands on her bare ass. One of her legs, the bad one, the one shot through with black, is slung up over his shoulder to give him room to work, and he presses his tongue deep into her cunt, eating her out like it’s his last meal.

Her toes curl when she comes, silent, and she collapses down, into his arms, panting and beautifully vulnerable, smiling as he cups her face and they kiss with the taste of her still all over his lips, giggling like she’s drunk on sex, a sex hysteria, as he slides his hands down over her neck.

 

Rule number #27: Don’t wait until they turn.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: implied Major Character Death.


End file.
